The Mail Room, Ludlow

Let's start with a question. Your starter for ten is this: When is a carpaccio not a carpaccio?

The answer is simple. When it's cooked.

And that, unfortunately, is what was presented to my friend when he and I dined at Ludlow's Mail Room.

His plate arrived from the kitchen with slices of greying meat, covered in green leaves and shavings of parmesan. The pallid meat had the colour and appearance of Billy Bear's smiley face salami – and unless you're Billy Bear, or Billy Bear's mother, that's not a good thing.

A flicker of disappointment danced across my friend's face. I'm pretty sure the flicker was caused by neurons racing across his brain saying something like this:

"I should send it back."

"No, don't send it back."

"But it's not a carpaccio."

"And what makes you think they'd get it right the second time around?"

"Good point."

"Damn it, I'm stuck with Billy Bear."

The smile that my friend had worn when he entered the restaurant disappeared and a frown appeared across his face. He resigned himself to an unpalatable course. His carpaccio had been served on a wooden platter that resembled a cricket bat. It was huge. If you'd presented it to Kevin Pieterson, he'd have happily accepted it.

Across the table, or, as we started to call it – The Great Divide – I was enjoying a better start to dinner. I'd ordered a pork and amaretti terrine, which was served with fennel salad and crisp toasts. Aspects of my dish were a treat: the terrine was packed with seasonal flavour. The toasts were delicious too. The fennel salad, however, was woeful.

Let's take another starter for ten:

When is a fennel salad not a fennel salad?

Answer: When it's a chutney.

The fennel – I assume it was fennel, though its taste had been so obscured that it could have been onion – had been cooked through and was a brown, unsightly mush on the side of the plate – or, rather, cricket bat. I'd anticipated a taste of summer, a refreshing and healthy accompaniment to my dish. Instead, it was dreary.

My visit to the Mail Room was the first I've made since its opening. My friend, in contrast, had eaten there four or five times. Few venues seem to have divided opinion quite as much. The venue sits in the heart of Ludlow, off Corve Street. It is located in a former Royal Mail building – hence its name, that was latterly the office for a local newspaper. The work and attention to detail that went into its reincarnation was thoroughly impressive. Tastefully decorated and adorned with pleasant artworks, it hits all the right notes. It is light and airy, there is ample space and the trend-meets-tradition stylings make for a pleasant environment.

However, I've heard numerous reports from people who have been underwhelmed. They've described the food as being chaotic and inconsistent – traits that don't wash in a gourmet town like Ludlow. Many have been supportive of the venue, suggesting a mid-priced bistro is precisely what the town needs, to bridge the gap between Michelin and cafe: but few have been convinced that The Mail Room has got it right.

The dining room was not the only impressive aspect of our evening. The service was spot on. Two waitresses were on duty when my friend and I visited and both put in a good shift. The maitre d', Izabela, was calm and assured. I'm sure ice – rather than blood – ran through her veins. She was charming and unruffled; polite and reassuring. On an evening when the mercury was nudging the high 70s, she looked as though she'd just stepped from a salon. All aspects of her work were impeccable. Her co-worker, Olga, was also impressive. Though she didn't possess to same high volumes of charisma, she provided redoubtable service; smiling at the right times and being personable throughout the evening.

The disappointment of my friend's starter left us undeterred. While I'd opted for, by my standards, a fairly healthy menu; my friend had gone straight for the jugular, or, rather, straight for the artery. To follow his Billy Bear carpaccio, he'd opted for a 10oz INKA grilled rib eye steak, served with triple cooked chips, grilled mushroom, confit tomato and café de Paris butter. I half expected him to choose a beef-themed dessert, like a beetroot and chocolate brownie (with beef), or vanilla ice cream (with beef); but, thankfully, he thought better of it.

The steak was disappointing. The chef had worked with a good cut of meat and had grilled it as requested. However, the meat had seemingly not been rested before going onto the plate. That meant it started to weep. The juices that were released as the meat rested filled his plate with an unappetising red/brown liquid. His chips were drowned and the same flicker of disappointment ran across his face. I guessed those neurons were working overtime, creating an internal monologue that ran something like this:

"Should I send it back?"

"No, don't send it back."

"But it's bled all over my plate."

"Remember what happened with the carpaccio."

"Fine. What is it with this restaurant and beef?"

He looked askance. In contrast, my main course, a slow-roasted chicken with crispy skin, new potatoes and a Waldorf salad hit all the right notes. The chicken was tender and succulent, the skin as golden as the evening sunshine and the Waldorf salad a pleasing mixture of sweet and savoury, a delightful balance of soft and crunchy textures. I wolfed it down and sympathised with my friend.

His dinner wasn't all bad. In fact, if he'd been given a mini-mop – and, I realise, mini-mops aren't available in most town centre restaurants – it would have been pretty damn good. The tomato was tender and sweet, the mushroom earthy and rich and the chips sensational. The triple cooking method, popularised by Heston Blumenthal, has found its way into countless restaurants and it really, really works. The chips on my friend's plate were golden and crisp. The edges had been roughed up, like a crisp face, and each millimetre of starchy potato had crisped. It was a chip masterclass; an elevation of frying to a noble art; a celebration of the humble stem tuber; a glorification of the enlarged, salt-and-vinegared stolon. They were D.E.L.I.C.I.O.U.S.

My friend skipped dessert. I wasn't sure whether his sugar-phobic diet, or his beef with his, erm, beef, was responsible. Either way, he ushered the menu away and ordered another beer. Heartened by triumphant chicken selection, I ploughed on regardless and ordered a smoked peanut-flavour parfait with posh popcorn. It was pretty damn good. My friend dipped his fork into the dessert, picked up a mouthful and purred his approval. The neurons flashed.

"This is like losing at home to Darlington," he said.

"I've ordered the best stuff on the menu and been disappointed, then I've skipped dessert because my luck ran out. But he . . . he . . . he . . . Oh forget about it. Peroni, please."

The parfait was smooth and creamy, it was a real delight. And therein lies the rub. The Mail Room is capable of seriously good food: the parfait was an out-and-out winner that would not have been out of place in one of the town's high-end restaurants. And yet the carpaccio was a disaster. The terrine showcased the chef's talent, and yet the fennel salad was dreadful. The chicken was utterly delicious, but the steak was underwhelming. I asked my friend why he kept returning to The Mail Room.

"It promises so much," he said. "When it's good, it's very good. . ." He didn't need to finish his sentence.

Inconsistency has no place in any self-respecting restaurant and there was too much of it on the menu during our visit. I've no doubt The Mail Room could become one of the town's most popular venues: the interior is delightful, service is good and there were some exciting flourishes in the kitchen. But there were also too many errors. And while all are easy to rectify, the restaurant ought to have already overcome them.

The Mail Room has been open for some time now and ought to have hit its stride. People speak highly of its owners and there was a great atmosphere in the restaurant. It feels as though the town wants it to do well – it just needs to focus a little more sharply on the basics.

ADDRESS

The Mail Room, Corve Street, Ludlow SY8 1DB

Tel:01584 877412

Web: www.themailroomrestaurant.co.uk